Chapter 4 #2
Vera leans toward me. The heady scent of her perfume sends a pleasant, calming shiver down my body, like I’ve just had an aromatherapy massage.
I notice her tanned collarbone, speckled with little moles, and think about how I want to kiss it.
About how I want to push her sleeve off her shoulder and start kissing my way down.
I realize I’ve been staring at her neck and look up.
She’s smiling at me and leans in closer. I vault away like a lemming.
“Shit! Time!” I squeak. “I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, that’s cool, no worries.” She stands up and pulls me into another warm, deep hug.
She’s so soft and the feel of her boobs against mine makes me want to throw my top off.
I stand very still, trying to make myself as unhuggable as a big, steel rake.
After stumbling out my goodbyes I effectively bolt back across the hill.
I didn’t have to go, obviously. I decide to walk home and then regret it.
Walking has this way of forcing you to focus on your own thoughts.
Why didn’t I get the tube, where I could concentrate on how annoying the person cutting in front of me on the escalator was instead?
Part of the whole appeal of living in London is having no headspace for your own thoughts, because you can’t hear them above the noise of everyone else’s.
I’m not entirely sure why I feel so awful. The date was good. Miles better than most of the ones I go on . . . so why did it make me feel worse than the bad ones?
I ponder this all evening and can’t come up with any answers.
The next day, I’m looking forward to seeing Angie and Damilola.
As I approach the Grapevine—a wine bar near Angie’s we’ve frequented since she moved into her current place—I see them sitting on stools in the window, laughing with drinks in hand, and I feel an instant swell of solace and relief. They look like home.
I sit down beside them, pleased to simply be in their company. For once I don’t care if we talk about the embossing on wedding invites or napkins or even napkin holders. I just want to sit quietly and listen to their comforting chatter. But both their eyes are firmly on me.
“Becky? Why did you leave so suddenly the other night?” Dami rubs my shoulder.
“I felt sick,” I say. It would be a lot more convincing if my lip wasn’t quivering.
She and Angie share a look.
“Are you sure? Do you want—”
“It’s nothing,” I insist. “I just had a bit too much to drink. I’m fine,” I say when they keep looking at me.
I’m too ashamed to tell them I’m upset about Max moving in with Fran. My friends are as tired of me as my mum is. As tired of me as I am.
Angie shakes her head with weariness, confirming that I’m right.
“OK, well, if you’re sure,” Dami says gently. “How was your date?”
“Uh, it was . . .” My reflex reaction, by now, has become to dismiss their questions. Say “meh” and move on, like I normally do when the conversation gets turned on me, so that no one gets bored of hearing the same old thing over and over.
But something compels me to say more this time.
I stopped talking to them about how much I hate my job, or living at home, or not being able to get over Max, because those things got old a long time ago.
But this date has brought up a lot of new feelings.
Maybe it might actually be nice to examine them with my pals, like we used to.
“It was . . . fun?” I answer with apprehension.
Dami’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. Angie practically spits out her drink.
“Excuse me?! Who are you? What have you done with Becky?” Angie jokes.
“Ooh, that’s exciting! What was she like? What was her name again?” Dami gushes breathlessly.
Naturally, they stopped bothering to learn the names of anyone I date years ago.
“Vera. She was nice. Cute. Smart. Warm. Sexy. Cheerful without being stomach turning. Made me laugh. She hikes, but, I don’t know . . . I didn’t mind that she hikes.”
Dami claps her hands together. She looks so pleased that I feel bad about dashing her hopes a second later.
“But . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll see her again,” I add.
Neither of them says anything. I continue.
“I mean, we could potentially have some not-entirely-terrible sex. I bet she wouldn’t ask me whether I’d rather have a beard or feathers for pubic hair, at least. But, I don’t know . . . She just wasn’t . . . You know?”
I don’t say it, but we all know what I mean.
She wasn’t Max.
I wait for them to chip in with their analysis. Why am I still not interested after a good date? Should I give up on apps altogether? What should I do now? But I’ve lost them.
“Sure,” Ang says, looking defeated.
Dami’s phone lights up and I see her click an email icon. This conversation is not even worth ignoring her inbox for on a Sunday.
They were briefly interested in my life and now they’re back to being tired of it. I squash my hopes that we might reconnect.
It’s a blow. Often their advice on this front is more annoying than useful; Angie’s been with Jacob since university, so she’s never even used a dating app, and Dami met Phil through a friend at work.
They don’t get what it’s like out there.
But . . . it stings that they’ve given up even trying to advise me.
I remember this is why I don’t share with them anymore and vow not to make that mistake again.
There’s a moment of silence while Dami answers the email—she never can read an email and not reply immediately—and Angie studies her nails, then Dami changes the subject.
“Ang . . . should we be celebrating your news?”
I look between them. News?
Here it comes. I brace myself to hear that Angie’s getting married now too.
They’ve been living together for a few years and she’s been angling toward it for a while.
Angie usually gets what she wants, eventually.
Despite feeling hurt by her, my gut clenches with protective unease at the thought of her marrying Jacob.
“Yeah, I’m finally setting up my own business,” she says.
“Oh. Congratulations.” My stomach muscles relax.
Dami notices my relief, and a moment of understanding passes between us. Dami would never say it out loud—she’s too classy for that—but we have a tacit agreement about our mutual dislike of Angie’s boyfriend. I’ve seen her watching Jacob hitting on other women, like I have.
“Ang, that’s seriously great,” I go on.
She smiles. “Thanks. Yeah. I’m really pleased.
I should have done it ages ago. What’s the point in working for a gym that’s taking fifty fucking percent when the clients are there for me?
I have enough clients now to go it alone, ones who are interested in more than just fitness.
They’re willing to pay for the whole wellness package, you know?
And I’ve got the nutritionist qualification. I’ve got funds for the space.”
“Yeah, it makes perfect sense,” I say. She’s wanted to open her own wellness center for years. She’s one of those people that’s naturally a boss, not an employee.
We toast to Angie and the tension between us is forgotten.
I am genuinely thrilled for her, but as I listen to her talk about her plans for her new website and where she’s looking to rent a studio, I can’t help but feel lonelier than ever.
Just one more thing to add to the list of people living their lives, when I seem to have a total inability to live my own.
Angie is starting her own business.
Dami is getting married.
Becky is not doing anything.
I think about how odd it is that my two best friends since school are sitting right across from me and yet I’ve never felt so distant from them.
The table might as well be a vast ocean between us.
They’re little, tiny specks on the other side of it and I’m trying to wave and jump and get them to see me but they’re just squinting going, “Do we know that person?”
I knew talking to them was a terrible idea. Why did I even try? They don’t understand. Of course they don’t understand. We’re not in the same place. We haven’t been in the same place for a long, long time.